Days Long Gone
by lookupatthesky
Summary: Troy wondered if Gabriella was looking up at the sky, thinking about him like he was about her. He doubted it. She had a life now, and it was clear that she could survive a lot better without him than he could without her. Oneshot, angsty Troyella.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing - that's usually what happens when it comes to big-time franchises :).

**A/N:** This was supposed to be a nice little 2,000 word or so oneshot that I wrote simply for my peace of mind. It turned out quite a bit longer, and a bit more complicated. Since I haven't posted anything in awhile, I thought I might as well put this up. It's a oneshot that has lots of one-sided Troyella and a bit of one-sided Troypay. It's depressing and angsty - don't worry, I'm not depressed or anything... just stressed :). I don't think this will have the same significance to anyone else that it has to me, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

**Days Long Gone**

"Troy, I'm worried about you."

"You're always worried about me."

Sharpay Evans sighed, maneuvering her blonde hair so that it was behind her shoulders and out of the way as she leaned forward across the restaurant table. She clasped her perfectly manicured hands together and leaned her chin daintily on them.

Troy Bolton was perfectly aware of the fact that her eyes were drilling holes into his bowed head, but he still stared down at the perfectly stitched tablecloth. It was white, with bright blue and yellow and red embroidery that befitted a fancy breakfast restaurant in Los Angeles but that didn't match Troy's mood at all.

She didn't reply to his comment, even though he was sure she had some sort of biting remark that she'd use without reserve on anyone else. But Sharpay had always treated him a bit differently than everyone else.

They had had the same conversation so many times, Troy could picture Sharpay closing her eyes slowly before asking, "Have you been taking your pills?"

The thought of those clear orange bottles of little capsules, riddled with warnings and precautionary notes, made Troy feel hot bile rise in his throat. He hated those damn pills. So, so much. They taunted him, tease him by floating promises of a better tomorrow in front of him. But it was just an illusion – it would never get better. He knew that now. After five years of hoping and praying and believing, Troy knew that some things just never changed and his life was one of those things.

"Yes," Troy lied, looking up and staring straight into Sharpay's eyes. She surveyed his eyes critically for a moment, as if trying to figure out if he was lying, but she couldn't decide. Troy had gotten very good at lying.

Shaking her head, she dropped her hands and offered, "We can ask David about other possible solutions at your next visit, if you want. When _is_ your next appointment, anyways?"

Troy watched somewhat distractedly as she reached down into her bag and pulled out a compact mirror and lipstick. He watched as she skillfully applied more to her lips, plumping them in that way that all girls tried to, but few could do well. But that was part of Sharpay's job – always looking fantastic. Troy always wondered if it got tiring, being perfect all of the time, always looking your best in case the paparazzi spotted you coming out of the doctor's or on your way to the gym in the morning.

It didn't seem like much of a life to him, but, then again, who was he to talk?

Shaking his head to brush the thought out of his mind, Troy answered in a faraway voice that had become the norm for him, "Next Tuesday."

Sharpay leaned down to drop her cosmetics back into her back. As she came back up, she frowned at his words, commenting, "That's a long time to go without seeing him."

Troy shrugged, responding, "Not everyone has a fucked up life like mine." He paused. "He's going on a honeymoon with his wife."

"And you like him," Sharpay pressed, leaning forward once again, hope kindling in her eyes. It wasn't so much a question as it was a statement. When Troy avoided eye contact and didn't immediately answer, she pushed, "You've stuck with him longer than the others."

"His first wife died in a car accident," Troy told her abruptly. He left out the part about how it made his life seem a little less hellish, because at least she was still out there somewhere – living a different life, yes, and having no desire to ever see him. But still alive, unlike David's wife. Sharpay had already figured out that part.

Sometimes, Troy liked to imagine her life. Maybe she was a ground-breaking scientist on her way to winning a Nobel Peace Prize, or a world-renown professor at MIT. Maybe she was working in a cubical, struggling to pay rent on an apartment that was rat-infested and leaking. Or maybe she was married, with two little kids that she dropped off at elementary school each day before returning to her suburbia house.

"Troy," she sighed, reaching out and putting a dainty hand over his trembling one.

"Don't," he whispered, his gaze returning down to that stupid tablecloth that had to look so happy. "Just… don't."

Sometimes, Troy liked to go out at night and just lie down in a patch of grass – it didn't really matter what grass – and stare up at the moon. If there wasn't a moon, he'd look up at the stars. Everything up in space was so big, so much more significant than one person, like him, that it seemed to put everything into perspective. It was comforting to know that in the long run his life didn't really matter. It was comforting to know that there was more to life than his pain, even if he himself didn't see it.

He wondered if she was looking up at the sky, thinking about him like he was about her. Troy doubted it. She had a life now, and whether she was a mom or a scientist or a teacher, it was a life without him, and one thing was clear – she could survive a lot better without him than he could without her. But maybe she_ was_ looking up at the sky, reminiscing about days long gone, and that was enough for Troy to keep on looking.

"We should talk about this," Sharpay told him after a heavy silence. Like the silence, her voice seemed filled with a sort of weight, and Troy knew he had said the wrong thing.

Shaking his head, he said calmly, "Shar, back off about it. I'm doing it for you, alright? Just… be okay with that."

Sharpay looked down so that she was staring pointedly at his trembling hand, which was still under hers, and Troy quickly yanked it away, placing it on his lap.

They were silent for a moment, and Troy passed the time by taking a few sips of coffee. The bitter liquid seared his throat, and he swallowed it uncomfortably. He remembered when he had put cream and three sugars in his coffee – that was when she was around, and everything was the way it should be. Cream and sugar was good for when you were feeling such great feelings, what you felt when you drank didn't matter. Later, after the good days were gone and he didn't feel anything at all, he switched to black because feeling something, no matter how insignificant and horrible, was better than feeling nothing at all.

The waitress came with their food, and the unorthodox pair ate in silence, save for small spurts of mindless babble coming from Sharpay. Troy offered to pay, but Sharpay shook her head at him, and he didn't struggle as she yanked it out of his hand. A hundred-dollar breakfast bill wasn't work fighting over. Nothing was worth fighting over.

Troy gulped down the rest of his coffee, and they stood up, Sharpay wordlessly leading him towards the door. The paparazzi had accumulated outside, and Troy really couldn't blame them. It was definitely one of the breakfast hotspots for celebrities. And of course the Sharpay Evans was like hitting the jackpot.

"Sharpay, Sharpay, look over here!"

"Miss Evans, can you tell us when your new album is being released?"

"How do you feel about your second album having gone platinum?"

"What about the film business. Is it true you're staring in a remake of _Breakfast at Tiffany's_?"

"What did you have for breakfast, Sharpay?"

"Smile, Miss Evans!"

Troy automatically wrapped his arm around Sharpay's shoulders, allowing her to lean into him as they walked through the crowd of cameras. He ducked his head, trying to prevent the photographers from getting good shots of his face. The last thing he needed was his face plastered all over or whatever those websites were.

Sharpay ignored the questions the paparazzi ruthlessly threw at her, and Troy tried to as well. It seemed like he was with Sharpay so often he had gotten used to them nearly as much as she had. Except for when they asked that one question.

"Sharpay, who are you with? Is it true he's your boyfriend?"

Troy froze. He physically stopped moving, his breathing stopping along with his heart for several long beats as the paparazzi surrounding him and Sharpay hesitated, obviously realizing a line had been crossed, although they had no idea what line, or when, or why.

"Gabriella," he murmured, unable to stop himself. He could feel Sharpay next to him, grasping his hand encouragingly and squeezing it slightly.

"Come on, Troy." Sharpay's voice was soft and soothing in his ear, but not nearly as soft or soothing as Gabriella's. He vaguely felt Sharpay turn away from him, and could picture her icy glare as she turned to the people surrounding them and hissed threateningly, "That's enough. Let me get him through."

Troy started at the cracked pathway, watching as it transformed into faded pavement until finally he could see the wheels of Sharpay's Porsche. He automatically got into the passenger side; the last time Sharpay had let him drive was before the pills, before the endless parades of shrinks, and before she was afraid he might be suicidal. Maybe he was suicidal. Troy didn't really know anymore.

He sat stone still in the car, treasuring the few moments of blessed peace that ended as soon as Sharpay opened her door and got in, slamming it behind her so hard the car shook.

She sat there, waiting for him to speak. And finally he did.

"There will be pictures." He was trembling. "I don't like the pictures."

"Do you like anything, anymore?"

"I like you." The answer was automatic, and Sharpay knew it.

Shaking her head so that her earrings tinkled slightly, she told him flatly, "You don't like me, Troy. You just don't know how to live without me."

Troy thought about how Sharpay always had her assistant go grocery shopping for him on the Monday of every week, about how she did all of his shopping for him so that he wasn't wearing the same thing everyday, and about how she came over to his house every morning with a cup of coffee from Starbucks and breakfast. She was the one that made sure he didn't over work himself at the gym, and always saw to it that the little things, like car inspections and Christmas gifts, were taken care of.

It was true, he realized. He didn't know how to live without her. But that didn't mean he didn't like her.

"But I do, Shar," he looked towards her, and saw the sadness on her face. "I do like you."

She sighed. "Okay, Troy." He knew she didn't believe him.

"Why are you here, then?" Troy challenged. "If you are convinced that I don't like you, why would you bring your life down, just for me?" He laughed bitterly. "Look at me – I'm going nowhere. I workout, I shut myself in a tiny room all day, surviving off of the money of a deteriorating career, and I think about her. _That is my life, Sharpay_."

He stared at her, waiting for an answer, and he had to wait several minutes before he got one.

She took a deep shaking breath, her voice breaking as she responded, "Maybe I don't know how to live without you, either." And with that, she started the car, put it in drive, and pushed down on the pedal.

Troy shook his head, memories flooding his head so much that it actually hurt. Memories of that wonderful summer. Of running on the beach, and holding hands in small little touristy diners. Of making love behind the outdoor showers in his backyard, their soaking wet bodies slick against one another and the taste of salt heavy on her skin as he kissed every part of her body that he could get at. Then there was the tenderer, romantic loving in his bedroom at the Evans' summer house, when Sharpay was busy with her summer fling and neither Ryan nor her parents were home.

He sighed. Those days were long gone, and nothing could bring them back.

They reached Troy's house, and Troy reached to unclasp his seatbelt, belatedly realizing he hadn't put it on in the first place. He glanced towards Sharpay, who was staring straight ahead at his cool, two-million-dollar house. He used to be proud that he was successful enough to have a house that was right up there with Sharpay's, but then it just became annoying. It was so big, with nothing interesting enough to hold his attention.

He opened the door, but remained motionless in his seat. When he realized Sharpay wasn't going to say anything, he did, speaking words that would only make everything worse.

"I love you, Shar."

She shook her head.

"You love Gabriella, Troy," she said sadly.

He nodded slowly, knowing that he couldn't deny it. But Sharpay was there, and Gabriella wasn't. "I do. But you can love two people, right?"

She thought about it. "I guess some people can," she answered finally. "But you can't."

Sharpay was right. He sighed and told her morosely, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she told him firmly. "You can't help it."

_That doesn't make it okay_, he thought to himself, but didn't say it out loud. He just nodded and got out of the car. "Thanks for breakfast."

She gave him a sort of crooked smile. "We do it every Sunday, Troy."

"Yeah, and I'm saying thanks for it."

He leaned on the car door, smiling slightly down at her, although it didn't reach his eyes. She giggled slightly. "Okay. Tomorrow I'll be over a little later than usual – I have a shoot for _Elle_ magazine or something. I'm leaving for Oprah later that night. You still want to come, right?"

"Yeah, I'll come," Troy said, nodding. He stood up straight and shut the door, watching Sharpay's car as she backed out of his driveway and drove away. With nothing left to do, he walked into his house.

The house was silent, which made Troy inevitably think about the paparazzi pictures, and how Gabriella would probably see them. That was the thing about the paparazzi in America – somehow they always managed to get even the most insignificant things all of the way to the East Coast.

Maybe she would think that he and Sharpay were together, and she would think that he wasn't clean. Gabriella wouldn't know from the tabloids that he had quit for her. And how could she? It would be impossible for her to tell that he had been clean from the moment she gave him the ultimatum – her or marijuana.

Troy sighed, looking around at the modern furnishings of the house, all of it a bit too impersonal for him. He glanced around, shrugging out of his dull leather coat and throwing it across a couch. Clad only in jeans and a maroon button-up work shirt, he walked with echoing footsteps through his house, passing through the kitchen, making several turns past closed doors, and climbing one flight of stairs before he finally reached his destination, which was a closed door identical to all of the others.

He reached a hand out, resting it on the doorknob before carefully turning it and walking in.

The room was a rather small one, with no windows and white walls. It was empty, too, save for a full-sized piano sitting in the center and a bookshelf that completely covered one of the walls. The bookshelf was mostly full, but not with books. Where the books should be, there were instead thousands upon thousands of folders, most of them that familiar tan color, with some variation. There were a sizable amount of blue ones and a fair amount of red as well. Every now and again he could spot a green sprinkled in there, too.

Troy immediately looked down at the floor, where the contents of several files were spread out on the floor. It was all music – musical sheets filled in with little musical notes and words in the margins that all added up to some sort of composition. Troy crouched down at picked up one of the musical sheets – on the top it said in big block letters that were his own GABRIELLA #56.

He remembered that one, just like he remembered all of the others – it was one of the many musical compositions of his that he couldn't seem to name. There were lots that he _did_ name, but there were some that just couldn't be described it words. That one was one of them. He had about sixty-two that he couldn't name, which he just called 'Gabriella' with the number it was, because they were all about Gabriella. Even the named ones were.

Troy's entire life was about Gabriella.

Troy didn't bother picking it up, he just walked over to the piano and the melody of GABRIELLA #56 rang throughout the room. He knew it by heart, just like he knew all of the other ones by heart. He wondered how many compositions he had – probably hundreds by then. Each of them were different, but they were all about the same thing.

He could feel his heart shatter as he played the slow, soft tune that brought flashbacks of the days when he stopped eating, was shaking perpetually, and couldn't sleep. He remembered those horrible days of withdrawal, from what he didn't know, because he never did find out what his dealer laced his pot with. He remembered the throwing up, the endless hours spent on the bathroom floor with Sharpay next to him, getting him water and running a soothing hand through his hair, whispering that it would be okay, and that once it was all over, Gabriella would come back, because he would be clean and that was what she wanted.

Troy remembered getting clean for Gabriella. He remembered even more how she had never come back, and how the feeling of his heart breaking was worse than anything marijuana could do to him.

He reached the end of the song, holding the last notes with his fingers and breathing heavily, as if he had just gone through a grueling experience. And he had, in a way.

Then the thought of the pictures returned, and a vision rose unbidden in his mind of Gabriella, spotting a tabloid with him and Sharpay in an embrace. She would shake her head, her suspicions having been confirmed that he was a no-good addict that just lived off of other people. Or maybe she'd start to cry, broken like him, because her worst fears had been confirmed.

Or, worst of all, maybe she just wouldn't care. Maybe she would cast a fleeting look and scoff, remembering their days together and not be bothered. Why would she care if he was with Sharpay, if she didn't care about him, as she obviously didn't?

His breakfast started to rise in his throat, and Troy stood up quickly, running out of the room and through the door across from it, making it to the toilet just in time to retch into it, tears falling down his face and mixing with the vile substance. He sobbed uncontrollably, falling backwards against the side of his bathtub. He shook uncontrollably, holding himself like a little child and rocking back and forth.

"Gabriella, Gabriella…" he whimpered, choking on his tears.

He remembered his dad, who had always told him that men never cried. Troy didn't feel like a man. He didn't feel like anything at all – just broken. He hadn't felt anything else for awhile.

This was his life, Troy realized, and that horrible fact made him shake and sob harder. His life consisted of going to a psychiatrist, Dr. David Fleischmann, who he only liked because his wife had died, following Sharpay's lead like a lost puppy, and locking himself in a room writing songs about a girl he hadn't seen in five years.

He told himself over and over again in his mind as his sobs turned into whimpers that he would change. Troy told himself that he would move on and live his life, and stop surviving off of memories of days long gone, but even as he thought it he knew he wouldn't. He couldn't.

Maybe Gabriella was out there somewhere. Maybe she was a ground-breaking scientist on her way to winning a Nobel Peace Prize, or a world-renown professor at MIT. Maybe she was working in a cubical, struggling to pay rent on an apartment that was rat-infested and leaking. Or maybe she was married, with two little kids that she dropped off at elementary school each day before returning to her suburbia house.

Really, though, it didn't matter what Gabriella Montez had made of her life. Troy already knew that she had made something out of it, and that was the worst part of all, because she had been able to move on and live her life, while Troy was still reliving those blissful moments they shared together.

He was heartbroken, after five years, and she hadn't bothered to even call since the day she walked out.

Eventually Troy felt sleep start to overcome him, and he allowed the peacefulness of crying himself to sleep wash over him. Sleep was nice. Sleep meant he could forget, for however short a time.

There were millions of things that Gabriella Montez could've done with her life. However, no matter what she did, she sure as hell wasn't thinking about Troy like he always thought of her, and that was what hurt the most.

A broken heart is at its worst when there's no one to share it with.

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